1895
by Cheese-kun
Summary: A famous writer was charged for gross indecency. An English author and an American diplomat decide to evaluate Love during a Victorian dinner party. What is the Love that dare not speak its name?


**1895**

The beautiful man was convicted.

Naturally, it was the number one subject of conversation during the countess's dinner party. Encased within four walls of deep green floral pattern laced with gilded stucco relief, surrounded by the most unusual set of decorative green carnations and primroses in several precious Chinese vases, and underneath the refracted light of one impressive Bohemian crystal chandelier was the small society of about a dozen people gathered around the long dining table. As always the faces were those of regulars. The countess liked to keep her parties familiar and straightforward in number. The debates and sharing were all the more intense that way.

So they were always the two authors, that one famous actress, a young rising prima donna, two poets, two composers, and four wealthy suitors of everything aesthetic. Recently, one certain man had repeatedly been invited for the sole reason of being one handsome breeze of delight.

They had all retreated to the parlour for musical entertainment and literary reading. At least, that was usually the case. However, nobody could blame them for changing the programme due to a recent public scandal. If there was something that the countess loved more than the arts, it was definitely the delicious pastime of gossiping. Thus, the piano's lid remained closed, no singing voice resounded, and neither verse nor prose was uttered.

Gross indecency was the man's crime. A romance with another man. A poem of said man's lover in hand, the prosecutor asked: _"What is the love that dare not speak its name?"_

And he, only after a brief moment of hesitation, ever so eloquently replied:

_"The love that dare not speak its name" in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. It is that deep spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of art, like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as "the love that dare not speak its name," and on that account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an older and a younger man, when the older man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. That it should be so, the world does not understand. The world mocks at it, and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it."_

Arthur Kirkland left the gathering discreetly, the weekly newspaper in hand, and stepped out to the spacious balcony that overlooked the English garden and the rotunda. The author leant over the balustrade, quickly becoming lost in thought about those inspirational words. The moment he read the news, he was suddenly overcome by jealousy as he had felt the urgent desire to be the one to have said those words. He would have been sent to two years of hard labour all the same, and yet he would have left his very own trace of bravery in history. But what was he doing? He was here in some kind of a supposedly intellectual salon and he was stuck to attend these, because he was one of them. He was a rebel that never really managed to break through his own shell.

But he wasn't just a jealous fellow writer. He was in the first instance a love that dare not speak its name. And he had felt pride and deep impact that his loving preference was considered as something noble, even though only in the eyes of a few.

Arthur's double-breasted frock coat began to gently sway in the wind as he remained longer to breathe in some fresh air. Seemingly in a trance like state he was leaning forward, past the balustrade, so much that he almost lost balance. That is, if there hadn't been a strong hand quick enough to capture him around his waist. The author felt himself being pulled back and pressed flush against a firm chest, the scent of Guerlain Cologne suddenly alluringly filling the air.

"That was close, Mister Kirkland." The voice was low, barely above a whisper and oh so enticing in that accent.

Instead of freeing himself from the other's grasp in surprise and indignation from being manhandled in such a way, Arthur didn't move. The Englishman didn't bother to move away, even choosing to go limp in the other man's embrace, leaning his head back to rest on a broad shoulder. His eyes fluttered close, hiding the strikingly green irides away, as he craned his neck to nuzzle against the other's collar.

Two gentlemen under the moonlight, pressed together in an embrace, even more forbidden than Romeo and Juliet, and being kept away from the public eye by a pair of heavy curtains only.

"I knew that you've followed me out, Mister American Ambassador," said Arthur as he finally opened his eyes to peer up at the foreign diplomat.

Blue eyes glistened behind a pair of eyeglasses and a gentle smile greeted him. Arthur raised his hand to lazily stroke the American's blond locks that were a shade lighter than his own.

The first time they met was when the countess had invited the new American ambassador Alfred F. Jones to join her monthly dinner party back then in summer. It was early autumn now and both had been inseparable ever since. Everybody was surprised to find their foreign guest to be so young of age and already in such a privileged position, and boy was he a humorous man with a bright smile and a clear laugh.

Arthur fell in love when Alfred spoke of justice with earnest, despite appearing to be nothing but carefree at first sight.

Alfred fell in love with Arthur when the temperamental and cranky Englishman abandoned his rough shell the moment he picked up his newest novel to read from it with a gorgeous voice filled with great sensibility.

"What's in your mind?" Alfred could see the thoughtful expression Arthur wore, and if he wasn't mistaken there was also a hint of yearning and desperation.

Arthur's hand smoothed the wrinkled newspaper and showed Alfred the illustrated news. The American nodded in understanding. "A brave man, isn't he?"

"He is one of the few contemporary writers whom I look up to. I adore him for his works and his lifestyle."

The Ambassador raised one eyebrow in mild surprise. To gain Arthur Kirkland's great respect wasn't the easiest thing, he knew.

Arthur sighed. "His lover wrote a poem about two loves."

"Never heard of it."

"I thought so."

Both chuckled and snuggled closer to each other.

"'_I am true Love, I fill_

_The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'_

_Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,_

_I am the Love that dare not speak its name.'"_

Arthur recited the last lines of the poem with fluency and a tone of empathy. "The very same poem was used against him by the prosecutor. And his reply to the court is going to be history. Aren't they romantic?"

Alfred hummed in thought and nipped at Arthur's earlobe, making the man leaning against him shudder and moan silently. Warm fingers traced the author's neck, jawline and cheekbones. Arthur captured the other hand in his and pressed it just a slightly bit above his groin. Both enjoyed the moment of intimacy full of sensuality and yet not downright shameless.

The English author was about to succumb to the caresses, when he was interrupted by the American's voice speaking out to him.

"It is romantic…though I don't think I agree completely."

Arthur's eyes widened and he looked up, bemused by those words. "Why do you say so?"

Alfred smiled. "Of course I am not as artistically intellectual, and maybe I simply lack the eloquence, but to me there is only one love."

Intrigued, the author turned around to face his lover properly, indicating the other to explain further. "Aren't we hidden lovers different than the common couple?"

"We may be different as in I'm a man and you're a man. But I like to think that love is equally beautiful, tingling, and overwhelming no matter if man and woman, man and man or woman and woman. And I think love is one. And it's big. It's so big, we can only see certain parts of it. People are afraid of what is unfamiliar and don't realise that the Love that dare not speak its name is one part of true Love. Maybe one day they will."

Arthur was sure he was falling in love all over again. He could not explain the soaring feelings in his heart any other way. The passion in his heart burned ablaze and refused to be extinguished. Alfred F. Jones was his love, inspiration and hope.

"One day we will be recognised as part of the One Love. At death's door I would be seeing memories of you loving me, and indeed, it would be the same _'Till death do us apart' _as said by a man and a woman in front of the altar," said Arthur, simultaneously cupping Alfred's face and pulling him down for a deep kiss.

They remained locked in a tight embrace for a long moment, neither eager to let go.

"Well…in hindsight…I would just prefer to be in the same category as the boys and girls love, because I'm not sure my love to you is, and I quote, _intellectual._ I mean, I just fell head over heels in love and had no control over it. Whenever I'm about to see you, I check myself in the mirror dozens of time, always filled with paranoia that something could be stuck on my face," trilled Alfred in a destructive attempt to proclaim his undying love.

Arthur pinched his lover's lower back in return and sent him an intimidating glare. Though in truth he just found it endearing and utterly flattering.

They shared a hearty laugh.

Still, Arthur couldn't help but be swept in melancholy; maybe because the newspaper in his hand was keeping him reminded of the recent events. The author sighed in sadness. "Still…I wish I could be as brave as him. And yet, there's nothing I could do to support him. I am a coward."

Alfred smiled and petted his lover for comfort. Sneakily, he pushed one green carnation and one primrose into Arthur's chest pocket, successfully making the author's eyes go wide in astonishment. His efforts were returned with a chaste kiss on the lips.

It was time for them to return to the party. Walking across the spacious balcony with their fingers interlaced felt like a blissful eternity. They pushed the heavy curtains, which separated the parlour and the balcony, aside and let go of each other's hand to join the countess's little gathering.

"I dreamed I stood upon a little hill…with you in my arms and me in yours, and we were True Love," whispered Alfred a second before they entered the parlour.

Arthur smiled and didn't look at his secret beloved as he approached the still gossiping party.

"So you did read the poem after all."

**Author's Notes: **

1. The convicted author in question is Oscar Wilde. The title 1895 is the year where his trials in accusation of sodomy with Marquess Queensberry's son Lord Alfred Douglas and eventual conviction to two years of hard labour took place. And the long quote was his actual response to the question regarding the meaning of 'The Love that dare not speak its name', which in itself is a line from a poem of Lord Alfred Douglas.

2. Arthur was quoting an excerpt from Lord Alfred's mentioned poem. It is titled 'Two Loves'. At the end of the fanfiction, Alfred was halfway quoting the beginning of said poem (The 'I dreamed I stood upon a hill' part), even though he had claimed to be unfamiliar with it.

3. Obviously, I was shamelessly taking the liberty to be very loose with the facts. Naturally, since the rest of the occurring characters are completely fictional.


End file.
